After Greylock I tromped through the town of North Adams, a decrepit town full of decaying factories, and then back into the woods where I crossed one more state line after a few miles of hiking. It was only a border, imaginary if it hadn't been noted in the minds of dreamers and on their maps, yet once I passed into Vermont, the crowded feeling I had in the last few states disappeared. There would be no more hiking through someone's backyard or noisy walks in towns with too many cars and where thru-hikers were looked upon as stinky nuisances. No more hiking in “woods” thin enough to spy houses through and offering no cover to hunker down for a squat. I had left the confines of the congested lowlands and was once again back in the woods. The real woods and their real mountains.

Sunset over the mountains near Clarendon, Vermont.

The next few climbs were tough. I suddenly found myself having problems. My energy levels had been waning the last 500 miles. It was easier for me to cut a day short at only 12 or 13 miles. I also caught myself looking for excuses to take rest days more often. The ascents up Greylock, Stratton and Glastenbury Mountains - the first major climbs in many miles - left me completely exhausted. Even the middling bumpiness of Connecticut wore me out. Something wasn't quite right but I simply attributed it to symptoms of hiking for so long and for so hard.

I found myself among a new crew, one of whom I knew from earlier. I had met Mental outside of Troutville and again near Waynesboro. He was also the hiker who took first place in the talent show at Trail Days for doing some fancy bike tricks. There was also Singing Bear, a section hiker, and a married couple by the names of “Snap” 'n' “Gator.” Also in the area were Rubicon, Orion, Woodpecker and ZipDrive, all people I had met before on the trail. I guess there was no one new left to meet.

Not long after entering Vermont, Mental, Snap 'n' Gator and I all resolved to make the Stratton Mt. warming hut. To hear the southbounders talk about it, one would think it was hiker heaven. The warming hut was located about .7 miles from the trail - usually too far off the beaten path for us to consider it, except this hut was like no other place. In the summertime, the ski company allowed hikers to stay overnight in the hut which had such amenities as electricity, a microwave, dryer, refrigerator, and television (no cable but super reception!). To make the hut though, we would have to hike 24 miles, which was not an impossible task but liable to be unpleasant with the days growing shorter. We did make it. I was the last to arrive and could not find the hut in the twilight. Mental on the other hand, made the hut before the gondola shut down at 5:00, went down the mountain in it and returned with a twelve pack of Sam Adams. Our hero.

I met my parents in Manchester Center, a yuppified outlet town. There they returned my stove, water filter and other items I had sent home in an attempt to lose some weight in my pack. I spent that night in the hiker hostel run by the Zion Episcopal Church. The next day the hostel, which had been operating for over twenty years, shut down forever. One of the parishioners explained to me that they were just tired of putting up with inconsiderate hikers.

I struggled onward. By the time I left Manchester Center, Mental, Snap 'n' Gator had gone on ahead. I also briefly encountered Tim Tank at the McDonalds in town but he pulled ahead as well. The trail was a river, its currents pulling all ahead while I kept getting trapped in eddies.

If this looks familiar, it's because it was featured in the 1987 National Geographic article on the Appalachian Trail. More...

On Killington I had a bit of an unpleasant surprise. The historic A.T. and the Long Trail had been relocated around Pico Peak. The relo made the distance from point A to point B 3 miles longer. Now this is nothing to get too angry about. The trail in its entirety has been relocated so much that its original distance of about 2000 miles has expanded to the present 2160.2. What infuriated me was that the relocation had gone into effect not two days earlier. It was then that I renounced my purist status. After following the white blazes for 1600 miles, I took the short cut.

You may wonder what the big deal is. Sometimes I did too.

I arrived at the Inn at Long Trail on Labor Day and enjoyed a Guinness or two. Rubicon was there as well. He was another person who I kept bouncing into all along the trail. I had my first met him in Pearisburg, and again in the Shenandoahs. These vanishing/reappearing hikers like Rubicon, Leaping Gnome and others, was one aspect of the trail that I enjoyed imensely, and one I think was unique to our particular hiking styles. The next day I reached the Maine Junction, the nickname for where the Appalachian Trail diverged from the Long Trail. Hiking was now a constant struggle. Between the Maine Junction and Hanover N.H. I had my last twenty mile day. My home state was not far off. I told myself that I could push through the last two states.

I may have even believed it.